by C. J. Sansom
‘They’re killing those running like so many beasts,’ Nicholas said.
‘Beasts they are, to them.’
We slithered back down the hill and passed the news on to the gentlemen, some of whom let out a ragged cheer. More had managed to free themselves from the chain, and now they dared to get to their feet. One said, ‘Head for Norwich. We’re safe at last.’ They began running unsteadily towards the city walls, making for a gap blown out by the rebels in the previous days’ fighting. It was protected by Warwick’s soldiers now. Nicholas and I could have gone, too, but somehow we had to see the end.
*
THOSE OF US LEFT – perhaps twenty now – lay exhausted where we were. Eventually, Nicholas and I climbed up to look over the lip of the knoll again. The battle between the men defending the baggage train, a thousand or more, and Warwick’s army, had ceased. Several officers from each side stood together, and some sort of parley seemed to be taking place. Everywhere else the battle was over; I saw rebel prisoners being herded into lines.
A horseman rode off towards the rebel gun platform. Glancing over to where Kett and his commanders had stood, I saw no one. Again we lowered ourselves slowly down. My back hurt terribly now. At least the afternoon sun was lower in the sky, the heat beginning to abate. Boleyn still sat crouched over, looking at Gerald’s body as at some strange unknown creature, a dragon or a unicorn, making no effort to wave away the flies that crowded over his dead son’s face. I remembered the brothers baying for their father’s death at the hanging.
Everyone was exhausted from fear and thirst; we lay in a dull-eyed row. I wondered what these men would do to their tenants and servants when they recovered. I remembered someone in the camp saying that the pardon offered to them by the first Herald was nothing more than a barrel of ropes and halters for hanging them.
We all jerked at the sound of jangling harness and voices above us and looked up, dreading what we might see. A group of mounted soldiers, the red cross of England emblazoned on their armour, gazed down at us.
‘So there they are,’ one man said. He laughed. ‘Hiding in a rabbit warren. As sorry a crew as ever I saw.’
Another man rode up and looked down at us. Captain Drury, whom I had first seen tormenting the Scotchman in London near three months ago. He smiled.
‘You are safe, gentlemen of Norfolk,’ he said. ‘The battle is over, the accursed rebels scattered or dead. The earl himself has negotiated a pardon with the last rebel archers. Come, climb up, it is time to reclaim what is yours.’
Chapter Seventy-nine
The soldiers had to help us up. Reaching the top of the knoll and looking over the thousands of dead on the battlefield, many of the gentlemen vomited, to the soldiers’ amusement. Tools were sent for, and the remaining padlocks removed. I looked over at the supply train; rebels from there were being led away by Warwick’s soldiers.
‘They’ve been pardoned, worse luck,’ a soldier said as he removed Boleyn’s padlock. ‘It was their condition for surrender. The Earl of Warwick came and granted it himself.’ On the battlefield the victorious soldiers were searching the bodies of the dead, looking for valuables and removing armour and helmets. I looked for Barnabas Boleyn, but there was no sign of him.
‘What of Robert Kett?’ I asked Captain Drury.
‘He and his brother fled the battlefield when they saw that all was lost.’
‘I witnessed what happened to those who fled,’ I said quietly. ‘How they were cut down.’
It was an unfortunate comment, for one of the gentlemen who had railed against the rebels before the battle pointed at me. ‘That man is not one of us, he is a lawyer, a serjeant-at-law no less, who worked for Kett, helped him at the trials at that accursed Oak of Reformation.’
Drury looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘You worked for Kett?’
‘I was made to,’ I answered. It was a lie, but I realized that many lies would have to be told in the days and weeks to come if I were to survive. ‘I came to Norfolk on a legal case, under instruction from the Lady Elizabeth, to represent Master Boleyn here. I was caught up in the rebellion.’
Another gentleman said, ‘If it wasn’t for the quick thinking of that red-headed lad, his friend, in lifting up the stake that held us between the battle lines, we’d all be dead.’
Drury still looked at me suspiciously. ‘This matter must be for the Earl of Warwick to decide. You’ – he waved at Boleyn, Nicholas and me – ‘come. The rest of you, get yourselves down to Norwich.’
He and two of his soldiers led us away, round the side of the battlefield, past the unbearable stench and the endless buzz of flies. The blood covering the innumerable bodies was drying now, turning black. I saw, too, the quick brown shapes of rats, slipping in among the mounds of dead.
*
DRURY TOOK US to the gun platform, which was guarded now by landsknechts. Rebel cannon were being hauled away. The bodies of some who had manned the guns were being removed as well, and briefly I saw the pale dead face of Peter Bone on a wooden stretcher, before his corpse was dumped with the others on the hill below the gun platform. The last of his family apart from the nephew he had never been allowed to know, the only man who had shown poor Edith Boleyn true kindness.
Breathing hard, I looked to where a trestle table had been set on the flat area of the gun platform. There, seemingly oblivious to the carnage all around, a group of senior officers studied a sketch map. They looked up as we approached; among them I recognized the lithe frame and dark-complexioned face of John Dudley, Earl of Warwick; and another – the strong square body and haughty features of Sir Richard Southwell. He stared down at me from under those hooded eyes. With him was John Atkinson, who looked out with a fierce expression. I realized Atkinson’s reminded me of John Flowerdew’s; there was the same determination to possess all he desired, the same conviction he was entitled to it.
Drury and his soldiers bowed to Warwick, as did we. ‘You did mightily today,’ the earl told them in his deep voice. ‘I thought this battle might be over quickly, but those rebels fought hard.’ He turned to one of his officers. ‘We’ll have to start clearing the battlefield at once, or the bodies will bring disease to the city.’
I looked downhill, where soldiers were still busily scavenging the innumerable corpses. I heard a shriek and, turning in the other direction, saw a rebel straggler on the heath, running for his life, pursued by a landsknecht horseman who leaned down and thrust a sword through his bowels. Warwick looked at the scene with cold disinterest; Southwell smiled. Then Warwick looked at Nicholas, Boleyn and me. ‘Who are these three?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are they rebel leaders?’
‘No, sir,’ Drury answered. ‘All three were among the chained gentlemen. The red-haired lad apparently saved them by pulling the stake which held the chain out of the ground; this one is John Boleyn, in prison at Norwich Castle for the murder of his wife, awaiting the result of a pardon application from the Lady Elizabeth. Apparently, it was great gossip in Norwich before the rebellion. The hunchback’ – he looked at me – ‘is a serjeant-at-law who apparently acted as Kett’s adviser at those childish trials of his, but says he was forced to work at the camp. The hunchback and the boy are Boleyn’s lawyers.’
‘Boleyn returns to the castle,’ Warwick said firmly.
Boleyn protested, ‘My lord, it has been discovered who really killed my wife.’
I said quietly, ‘We have no proof yet.’ As indeed we did not, for Michael Vowell was long gone.
‘Speak when you’re spoken to, both of you!’ Warwick snapped. He looked at me. ‘Name,’ he asked sharply.
‘Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-Law.’
‘You were at the camp under duress?’
I took a deep breath. ‘My assistant and I were taken at Wymondham, at the start of the rebellion. We were on a visit to John Flowerdew, the feodary, about some money taken improperly from Master Boleyn’s wife.’
Southwell snorted. ‘His concubine, you mean. This Shardlake is
a pestiferous poor man’s lawyer, well known for his radical views. When you hang the leading rebels tomorrow, he should be there.’ His gaze on me was cold and intent. I thought, Boleyn should not have said Edith’s killer had been discovered, for Southwell was implicated, and would want him – and Nicholas and me – dead more than ever. And he would remember, I am sure, that morning I encountered him at St Michael’s Chapel.
I said to Warwick, in humble tones, ‘I was taken by the rebels, as I said. Robert Kett made me act as an adviser at those trials. I had no choice; I did all I could to mitigate the sentences. My assistant Master Overton vocally opposed the rebellion, and was himself tried at the Oak.’
‘Did you try to escape? Kett’s first lawyer did, Thomas Godsalve.’
‘My Lord, you will see I am not young, nor built for escape.’
Warwick smiled coldly at Southwell. ‘Then he’s no more guilty than men like Mayor Codd, who was forced to help the rebels at the start. And these three ended up chained with the rest of the gentlemen. I think we must forget Shardlake’s cowardice in aiding the rebels, as we must that of officials all over the country faced with rebellion, to ensure government continues in the localities.’
Southwell spoke again, more forcefully. ‘I think he should be executed as a rebel. There is much hanging to be done tomorrow, he should be included.’
‘Damned rebel, he is,’ Atkinson repeated.
‘My Lord,’ I said, ‘the Protector’s secretary, Master William Cecil, knows me, and of my past services to the State. And I lodged the pardon on behalf of Master Boleyn’s distant relative, the Lady Elizabeth. Before the rebellion started.’
Warwick inclined his head, but did not look as impressed as I had hoped. He turned to Southwell. ‘You have met this man?’
‘Once.’
I said quickly, ‘In company with Master Cecil.’ Then I dared to say, ‘I think we met a second time, too, though I cannot remember where. I would give five hundred pounds to recall it.’ I forced myself to look at Southwell directly. For the first time, his eyes opened fully and he took a deep breath. Even if Warwick sentenced me to execution as a rebel, I had time to tell Warwick the truth about him. Warwick, who seemed to miss nothing, looked between us, clearly divining something personal was involved here. And hopefully he was not going to arbitrarily hang people connected to Cecil and the Lady Elizabeth. He considered, then said decisively, ‘There are no grounds for trying this man, Sir Richard. He and the boy may go. Now come, we have much to do.’ He looked at Drury. ‘Any word of Robert or William Kett?’
‘None yet, my Lord, but I am sure they will be captured soon.’
Warwick turned back to his papers, though Southwell stared relentlessly at me. I ventured to address Warwick again. ‘My Lord, pardon my interruption, but may I ask that when Master Boleyn is returned to the castle a special guard is put on him, as was done before? There have been attempts to poison his food.’ I looked directly at Southwell and Atkinson. Atkinson’s face twitched, the moles on his face moving up and down each time. Warwick followed my gaze.
He said, ‘It seems indeed there is more to this business than meets the eye. Very well. Sir Richard, now the battle is over should you not go to your mistress the Lady Mary, and put your own estates in order? Shardlake, you and the boy go back to London, but be ready to give evidence about your involvement if called upon. Understood?’
‘Yes, my Lord. But may I stay in Norwich a day or two longer? I have friends there, and I do not know what has become of them.’
Warwick shrugged, clearly tired of us. ‘Very well. But be careful in the city.’
‘Things are quiet enough there now,’ Drury said. ‘It’s as well we quartered the soldiers raised by muster in Norwich. They’ll keep order, and I’ve begun the search for the leaders of the Norwich men who aided the rebels, as you commanded. If the rebels had won this battle, they planned to go straight to the north of the city through the breaches in the walls. Those we have captured already told us that.’ I drew a deep breath, thinking of Josephine and Edward Brown.
Warwick smiled. ‘Yes. Our mustered men are not from Norfolk, and should be willing to keep order here. Though many of them are common rabble raised from the villages. If we had brought them to the battlefield some might have changed sides. Who knows, in these whirling days?’ He smiled again, secretively. ‘Which, I suspect, are not yet quite over.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘By God, the stench from the field down there. It’s getting worse.’
Chapter Eighty
And so, towards evening, Nicholas and I, stunned and exhausted, trailed back to Norwich. Nicholas carried Gerald Boleyn’s sword. We walked downhill to the city gates, avoiding the battlefield. Every bone in my body hurt, my back was sore, and Nicholas had to help me down the hill. I could not get the image of Peter Bone’s white corpse out of my head.
I felt unable to clamber up the rubble and through the breach in the city walls blasted by the rebels, now manned by Warwick’s soldiers. Although they waved us in, we waved back in thanks but walked along to Magdalen Gate, aiming to follow the road into the city from there. I wish we had not. A great gallows was being erected outside, big enough for hanging five men at a time. Even worse, the naked bodies of defeated rebels from the city were being brought on carts and dumped outside the gate in a heap. Already there were over a hundred. Looking back up the road, I could see other carts coming from Dussindale, the bloodied bare arms and legs of dead rebels hanging over the sides. Nearby, dozens of labourers fetched from the city were starting to dig a great pit under the supervision of soldiers – no doubt a mass grave.
I looked at the bodies, white flesh and great red wounds.
‘Come away,’ Nicholas said.
‘I was looking – looking to see if Barak was in amongst them. Dear God, do you remember three years ago when I had to tell Tamasin her husband had been maimed? Am I now going to have to tell her he is dead? We may not even discover it, how can we find him among all these dead?’ My voice broke.
‘Come on. We can’t stay here. We must make enquiries in Norwich.’
The attention of one of the soldiers standing guard by the piles of dead had been drawn by my staring. ‘What’s your problem, hunchback?’ he asked in an unfamiliar accent, Lincolnshire perhaps. ‘They’re rebels, every one.’ He looked at me suspiciously, lowering his halberd to point it towards me. ‘You’re not rebels escaped from the battle, are you?’ His suspicion was understandable, for two more dirty, smelly, ragged creatures than Nicholas and me would have been hard to imagine. I said, in my most cultivated accent, ‘We are lawyers. We were in the line of prisoners chained before the rebel forces. Look, here!’ I held up my chafed, bloody wrists.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the soldier said, his voice immediately deferential.
‘We are making our way back into the city.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I see they are building a gallows.’
The man smiled broadly. ‘That’s right. The Earl of Warwick’s presiding over trials under military law in the castle tomorrow, and the leaders will be hanged. Drawn and quartered too, some of them, here, in the town and at that cursed Oak of Reformation.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
He nodded at the sword Nicholas carried. ‘But I must take that. Only soldiers may carry weapons into the city.’
*
WE MADE OUR WAY down Magdalen Street, towards the centre of the town. ‘Where are we going?’ Nicholas asked.
‘I thought we’d try the Maid’s Head first.’
He looked dubious. ‘We caused them some trouble when we were there before.’
‘We can show them we were chained up, just as we did that soldier. Remember, we’ve both got spare robes there. They may let us clean ourselves up, even take a room while we discover what has happened to Barak, and Josephine and Edward.’ I smiled bitterly. ‘We must become gentlemen again to survive now.’
‘What if we come across someone who was sentenced at the Oak while you were advising Kett?’
>
‘We say what I said to Warwick, I was there by force and tried to mitigate the judgements, and Warwick himself let me go. Nicholas, we’re going to have to bend the truth a good bit from now on. Come,’ I added impatiently, ‘my back pains me. I would give anything for a bed.’
*
WE CONTINUED DOWN Magdalen Street, across the river, and towards Tombland. Everywhere there were signs of the intense fighting that had taken place in the city; some houses had been set on fire, others hit by cannon. The smell of smoke mingled with the stink from the bodies which Warwick’s soldiers, aided by poorer citizens, no doubt requisitioned for the task, were loading onto carts. Each body was stripped, if they were rebel troops. Dead horses were being dragged away in butchers’ carts, although one had already been set on by a pack of dogs and was being ripped to pieces. I looked up at Mousehold Heath – smoke still rose in places from the burned and blackened camp. Few citizens were abroad, but soldiers stood about in groups, some drunk. We crossed Fye Bridge and walked down towards the Maid’s Head. There we saw even more signs of the three days’ fighting for the city – overturned carts, one pierced with arrows, destroyed equipment, shreds of clothing and yet more bodies. In Tombland numerous soldiers guarded the square, the closed cathedral gates, and Augustine Steward’s house, to which the banner of the bear and ragged staff had been fixed. From the many people going in and out I guessed this was Warwick’s headquarters in the city now. A few houses away, Gawen Reynolds’s courtyard was shut and locked.
We turned into the Maid’s Head entrance. The doors were open and the place was busy, officers from Warwick’s army talking in the hallway, servants scurrying around. Master Theobald, supervising, saw two dirty, ragged creatures enter, and hurried over with a grim look. As he came close, though, his eyes widened in recognition. ‘Master Shardlake?’